“It’s good, quite good, thank you,” said the Frenchman, in French, “but there must be some linen left over.”
“It will fit better still when it sets to your body,” said Karatáev, still admiring his handiwork. “You’ll be nice and comfortable....”
“Thanks, thanks, old fellow.... But the bits left over?” said the Frenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble note and gave it to Karatáev. “But give me the pieces that are over.”
Pierre saw that Platón did not want to understand what the Frenchman was saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karatáev thanked the Frenchman for the money and went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked Pierre to translate what he said.
“What does he want the bits for?” said Karatáev. “They’d make fine leg bands for us. Well, never mind.”
And Karatáev, with a suddenly changed and saddened expression, took a small bundle of scraps from inside his shirt and gave it to the Frenchman without looking at him. “Oh dear!” muttered Karatáev and went away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre’s look had told him something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:
“Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself!” And handing back the odd bits he turned and went out.
“There, look at that,” said Karatáev, swaying his head. “People said they were not Christians, but they too have souls. It’s what the old folk used to say: ‘A sweating hand’s an open hand, a dry hand’s close.’ He’s naked, but yet he’s given it back.”
Karatáev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at the pieces.
“But they’ll make grand leg bands, dear friend,” he said, and went back into the shed.